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SST8 – BeaBop – Final Edit – The Ngwa Evolution

15 Feb

The Ngwa Evolution

Hands scrunching, grinding.

Air mating flour, eggs, milk

Into a cookery experiment

That flew splats across the kitchen,

Painting aprons with

I told you

And

I want to have a go.

Nan’s pencilled frown forms

‘Mba’

On her lips

Halting the boys before their rich

Batter is worked too hard

And turns into rubber.

Reminding her that the perfection she had sought

From the daughter,

Eldest,

Who had bore these boys,

Had rebelled from the pressure

Of transferring eggs to flour,

Just so.

Had never really backfired.

Instead her daughter took same said ingredients

And mixed a new-style recipe –

Created a stubborn revolution

Fought battles against her in order to

Set a new sunrise

Plastered over age old recipes

Written in the same sky

Mba

Somehow the three boys sense how

Nan had never baked with her daughter

And they coat her hands with lumps of love

Melting those rigid solids

Into a sweet ever-flowing

Alchemy of

Ngwa

Which keeps her back straight

Yet reborns her features

Into an upturned rainbow

Mba

As she watches her grandsons turn questioning eyes,

Flicking from one generation to the other

Of women who smile at their new shoots,

Three boys

Daring for freedom,

Licking fingers

Covered with stories,

Revealing their kindness

She whispers,

Ngwa

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Hayley Green – SST8 Headline – Final Draft

15 Feb

Ode to Our Jam Roly Poly

My flour and butter parcel,

sticky red splurging from your folded corners.

You were Gran’s kisses in the kitchen on Sundays

when arguments boiled over in the living room.

We snuggled in a cuddle of steam,

lamb, slow stewing in the oven.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down.

Tucked behind the service hatch,

we’d bake you to distract. Spittle sugar loud over

threats of leather belts slapping backs.

On the days the living room boiled into the kitchen,

you wore a cling film coat, left our stomachs –

hungry, (disappointed)

our taste buds tart, our sweet tooth pickled

with every over vinigered cucumber.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down.

Gran still spooned us sweetners,

we over-hangers –

lumps of hand me down pastry from big brother apple pie

squeezed with strawberry jam so we both bled

the same colour through identical slits I knifed

into our skins.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down.

Nafeesa Hamid SST8 Scratch poem: line edit/3rd draft

8 Feb

1.     Dough

Morning. Colgate toothpaste.

The glass table. Chairs. Sat on sofa.

Hand-made covers; satin, rough

With age and too many arses.

Curry.

Mum was cooking curry just yesterday.

The night before.

Roti –

She used to make

it regularly

Back then.

People, customers, shop.

Police officer. Woman.

The Police Officer came

To throw dirt in the burn wound.

Our makan still smelled of hot roti from

the day before.

My mum must have pounded that dough

Until there was roti flour all over the house.

The Police Officer came

To throw dirt in the burn wound.

She wanted to retain the juices

That otherwise might drip away.

I just wanted to cook

The leavened dough that had been

Exposed

To too much air already,

And eat it all up.

But the Police Officer didn’t

Want to leave it to rest;

She wanted to pick through the grains

And bring back

The Baker.

Yesterday’s clothes were left crumpled in a corner;

Stained

forever.

I don’t know what happened to them.

My mum gives me

new, ironed

clothes to wear

and tells me to brush my teeth well.

The police are coming over

for tea

today.

I need to remember

my dad is watching.

He leans on the radiator,

his back too straight,

his eyes

wallowing

low

over his smile.

And he keeps asking

the officer

if she would like a drink.

I would like for him to

leave.

I would like for them all to

leave. Me.

To take their questions

and swallow them down

with their tea.

There is something jagging

in my chest, right there –

a duh duh duh

duh duh duh. Duh.

Right there.

Where his fingers had sweated

themselves

into me.

I don’t tell the officer

about the jagging

in my chest.

—————-

Length of performance: About 4 minutes

Tech/stage requirements: blue/ red light, 2 chairs, skipping rope, cloth to cover chairs (I will source), white flour, audio (police siren, heavy breathing, Bollywood acapella)

Hayley Green – Headline – Line Edit

8 Feb

FORMATTING IS MESSED UP, DON’T KNOW WHY

Here is my latest draft. I have had some feedback since but no time to implement it ye, but still wanted to put something up. The bits in bold and italicised will probably be replaced.

TECH: I’m thinking of having a red wash but nothing more extravagant with the lights. Slight possibility of projection (my own images). Might use those blocks they said they had for staging, defo won’t need anything special bringing in. 1 x mic and stand please. That’s all for me.

Time: 1 minute 30 (2 minutes to be safe)

Ode to Our Jam Roly Poly

My flour and butter parcel,

sticky red splurging from your folded corners.

You were Gran’s kisses in the kitchen on Sundays

when arguments boiled over in the living room.

We snuggled in a cuddle of steam,

lamb, slow stewing in the oven.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down

Tucked behind the service hatch,

we’d bake you to distract. Spittle sugar loud over

threats of leather belts slapping backs.

On the days the living room boiled into the kitchen,

you wore a cling film coat, left our stomachs –

hungry,
our taste buds un-hugged, our sweet tooth bitter

with every mouthful of over peppered dinner.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down

Gran still spooned us extra love.
We outcasts –

lumps of hand me down pastry from big brother apple pie

squeezed with strawberry jam so we both bled

the same colour through identical slits I knifed

into our skins.

A little bit of Sunday sugar helps the bile stay down